


It Started Out With A Kiss

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Dean, Kissing Lessons, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Possessive Dean, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Queer Sam, Requited Unrequited Love, Sam is 17, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Swearing, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4196457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a date.  That's not the problem. The problem is that Sam's asking Dean to teach him how to kiss. The problem is that this kiss changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Started Out With A Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Dean teaches Sam how to kiss and then realizes how much he liked it. Then Sam gets a boyfriend and Dean catches them kissing and Dean gets possessive and jealous because he's the one who taught Sam how to do that and Sam should only be doing that with him.
> 
> I would like to take a moment to thank my wonderful friend [sammywithdean](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sammywithdean) for giving me this prompt to fill out. As it happens with most of my ideas, I started out with a small idea of where I wanted to go with this and then it all kind of went out of control and somehow this became the longest thing I've ever written in one sitting. 
> 
> Enjoy!!

Dean is a good big brother. Okay? Let’s just make this perfectly fucking clear.

So, of course, when his little brother waddles up to him at the age of four and grabs Dean’s face between his pudgy hands demanding “kissies”, Dean’s gonna indulge him (with a roll of his eyes and a big sigh, but indulge him nonetheless). Dean’s only eight at the time, so it’s not weird just yet to cover your kid brother in a smattering of big, wet kisses all over his soft, soft face, because if it makes Sammy giggle and squeal with happiness then who is Dean to say no?

And when Sammy is six and his nightlight breaks in his room at Pastor Jim’s house and he climbs into Dean’s bed with his dumb, cold feet on Dean’s warm legs, Dean lets him. When Sam asks for kisses then too, Dean rolls over and peppers Sammy’s cheeks with his mouth before settling in and telling him a bedtime story, making up the words as he goes.

Dean is still a good big brother when he pushes Sam’s twelve year old mouth away from his cheek in the diner they’re at for breakfast. Dad’s in the bathroom and Dean has just given Sam the rest of his milkshake because Sammy drank his too fast and was pouting at Dean’s so pathetically that he shoved it into Sam’s hands. Grinning, Sam leaned over and planted his mouth on Dean’s cheek and here they are now, Dean nudging Sam away with a scowl as he rubs his sleeve over his face. Dean is just looking out for his little brother, okay? Sam’s nearly a teenager and he needs to know it’s weird for him to go around kissing his brother all sloppy and big, and no, it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that Dean’s embarrassed to have his brother slobber on him in front of the cute girl sitting at the next table, shut up. The confused twist of Sam’s mouth and his furrowed brow make Dean’s heart sink so Dean lunges forward to tickle Sammy’s ribs until he’s laughing, the hurt disappearing from his face as he tosses his head back and knees the table so hard that the milkshake falls over. Dad’s back and reprimanding them with low hisses, but does it matter if Sam is smiling all shy and knocking his ankle against Dean’s under the table?

The softest place in Dean’s heart is reserved for his little brother. That’s never been a question. He really hasn’t ever been able to tell Sam ‘no’ (and the times that he has had to, usually at Dad’s insistence, the word tasted like poison dripping from his tongue). Dean’s never been good with words, never claimed to be, so he’s not gonna go all waxing poetic about how important Sammy is to him and how he’d do anything to protect his baby brother because that’s already outlined in Dean’s job description. Loving Sam (not that Dean will ever let that four letter word fall from his mouth, not even on his deathbed if he can help it) is more like something that has been ingrained in Dean’s bones ever since Mary settled that bundle of blankets in the crib for the first time. Peering through the wooden bars, Dean caught the first glimpse of those wide hazel eyes and he was done, a slow burning heat spreading through his body as the deep connection between the two brothers settled into the very fibers of his being. Even then, Dean knew that the rest of his life was going to revolve around his little brother.

Sammy comes first, that’s the motto. So yeah, Dean sometimes skipped a meal or two so that Sam would have enough food to take to school for lunch, and he, not Dad, was the one who protected Sam from knowing about the things in the dark for as long as he could because Sam is innocence manifested into human form, and so what if Dean became a bit of a delinquent by shoplifting clothes since Dad didn’t leave enough money because, look, Sam could only go out in public so many times in a shirt that has more holes than a block of Swiss cheese, okay?

The point of this is that Dean is a good fucking brother and, yes, he seriously fucked up that one night two months ago, but that doesn’t change it from being pure, unadulterated fact.

But God, does Dean wish he had said ‘no’ that night. He wishes it more than anything in the fucking world. 

 

\---

 

**Oak Creek, Colorado – Two months ago**

 

Dean’s at the garage when his phone starts to ring. Tucking the greasy socket wrench into the front pouch of his coveralls as he wipes his hand on his once white wifebeater, Dean digs around in his back pocket until he can pull out his cell phone.

“Sam?” Dean answers, knowing without checking the caller ID that it’s his little brother who should be in school right now, the little shit, he better not be skipping or Dean’s gonna kick his ass.

Sam starts rambling, tripping over his words like he used to trip on his feet when he was still thirteen and a lanky son of a bitch, so Dean sighs. Squishing the phone between his shoulder and his head, Dean covers his other ear and moves out to the front sidewalk, away from the clanging and whirring of the other mechanics working.

“Slow down, Jesus, Sam. Are you okay? Why aren’t you in class?”

“Dean, _listen_ to me!”

“I _am_ listening. Are you bleeding? Missing an appendage?”

Dean can practically hear Sam’s eyes rolling through the phone as he responds, “ _No_ , Dean, I’m fine. God, you’re paranoid.”

“So then why the fuck are you bothering me when I’m at work?”

“I have a date!” The words come so fast that Dean has to squint up at the blue sky above his head and focus on a drifting cloud to take the time to sort out his brother’s rushed syllables into intelligible words.

“Congratulations. You have officially become a man. We’ll throw your bar mitzvah tonight when you get home.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

Dean’s lips twitch up at the corners as the sun becomes shielded by the cloud he was eyeing, knowing the exact bitch face Sam is pulling from how he’s putting inflection on his words.

“Plus,” Sam adds, just because he’s Sam and he fucking has to. “Bar mitzvahs happen when the kid is thirteen. I’m seventeen.”

“You always were a late bloomer, Sammy. No shame in that.” Dean says easily, taking the phone into his hand so he can roll his head around his shoulders, loosening the muscles in his neck. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Dean hears Sam clearing his throat, the sound tinny as it comes through the other end of the phone. “Her name is Danielle. We’re in the same Calculus class.”

“She sounds hot.”

“ _Dean_.”

Dean blusters out a sigh, his lips flapping obnoxiously with his exhale. “Look, Sammy, this is great and all, but some of us have a job to keep here. And _some_ of us have school.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I’m going.” Sam grouches, his voice starting to fade as he pulls the phone away from his ear to end the call.

“Hey. Sam.” Dean says quickly, his hand tightening on the piece of plastic between his fingers.

“What?” Sam sounds irritated, like he regrets calling Dean at all. The thought makes Dean’s stomach turn because, no, Sam can’t have a frown on his face right now, not because of Dean being the stupid older brother when he was the first person Sam wanted to call with his news.

“’M happy for you. Tell me more about her when I get home, okay?” Dean grunts because it’s not like he can come across as being sappy or anything. He scuffs his boot on the small rocks littering the sidewalk as he waits for Sam’s response.

Six heartbeats later, Sam agrees and Dean’s stomach settles again in his belly.

“Go back to class, slacker.”

“See you soon. Don’t work too hard, honey.” Sam’s voice lilts at the end with his jab, the smirk evident in his tone. Before Dean can bitch out anything else, the line is dead. Scowling, Dean pulls the phone from his ear and ends the call, the cheap plastic warm in his palm. That little shit.

Dean shoves the phone into his back pocket and strides back into the garage to finish up the Buick he’s been working on for the past two days. Dad has dumped them in this small town in Colorado for the next couple of months. He and Pastor Jim have been trailing a djinn across the southwest states for a couple weeks now. Dean got the call from Dad yesterday that it had moved down past the border into Mexico and was a particularly nasty sonuvabitch so Sam and Dean were going to have to prepare to be there for at least another month and a half. Dean had managed to grab his job at the garage in their first week there so at least money wasn’t going to be a problem.

The place that he and Sam were staying was an old safe house that Bobby had bought in case of the apocalypse or something, because seriously, this was the epitome of East Jesus Nowhere. But whatever, it’s their current home, even if it is tucked far back into the one backroad of the area that doesn’t have a name and peels off the 131 just before it reaches the main town. It does mean that it’s a bit of a hike for them to just walk to town, so Dean usually drops Sam off at school and gets him on the way home. It pisses Dean off to have to drive the Impala down the unpaved lane with all the dust and the rocks and all that shit that makes his car dirty. The ride always ends with Dean punching Sam in the shoulder because Sam tells him he’s overly attached to a hunk of metal and that’s just crossing a line.

By the time 3:30 rolls around, Dean has done all he can on the Buick, checking off everything he needs to on the workup sheet for the owner to sign after the weekend.

“That’s it for me, boys!” Dean calls as he bends backwards and cracks his back. “See you Monday!”

A loud chorus of goodbyes reach Dean’s ears from the other mechanics, most of them waving some heavy metal tool along with their words. Dean nabs the keys to the Impala and lopes over to the parking lot for employees of the garage.

“Hey, baby,” Dean mutters, patting the trunk of the car before opening it. He steps out of his dirty coveralls and throws them on top of the fake bottom where all their weapons are stored. The jeans he wears underneath are kind of sticky with sweat because it’s an especially hot April afternoon, but what the hell, he’s going to get a shower in twenty minutes anyway if Sam isn’t a little bitch and dibs it first. Dean slides into the front seat, the leather hugging his legs and back in a heated embrace like his car actually missed him. Smiling, Dean shuts the door behind him, puts the window down and turns the engine over before pulling out of the lot to make his way to Sam’s school.

As Dean slows down and swings into the cul-de-sac that circles in front of the school doors, he is able to spot his little brother just off to the side of the main stairs, standing with another guy and two girls. Of course, it isn’t hard to find Sammy in a crowd with him being eight feet tall, the fucker. Okay, maybe not eight feet, but he’s getting there. Putting the Impala in park, Dean grabs the lip of the roof with both hands and heaves himself up and out of his open window, planting his butt where the glass would usually be.

“Hey!” he hollers, a stupid, big grin pulling at his mouth when he notices he gets a majority of the student population milling around waiting for their friends and parents to turn and look at him. The grin turns devilish when he watches Sam’s head turn slowest of all, the ultimate bitch face darkening his brother’s expression. Dean waves his pointer finger between the two girls standing in front of Sam and his friend. “Which one of you is Danielle?”

Sam’s face melts into a look of absolute horror. From the blush that paints the brown haired girl in front of Sam, Dean gathers that that’s Danielle. Smiling broadly, Dean waves theatrically before laying both palms on the roof of his car, tapping out a random beat on the metal with his hands. Sam is there in record time, leaning over the roof of the passenger side of the car with a bright red face.

“Heya, Sammy!”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Dean?” Sam hisses, his eyes darting left and right as most of the students continue to watch the spectacle.

“What?” Dean feigns innocence, raising his hands in the air like he’s surrendering. “I can’t find out which lovely lady my little brother is taking out for a night on the town?”

“You know what you did, asshole,” Sam glowers at him vehemently.

Dean is just opening his mouth to say something else to tease Sam when the girl he is ninety eight point three percent sure is Danielle walks over and stands next to Sam, her eyes meeting Dean’s easily. Raising his eyebrows, Dean tilts his head and looks at her, a slow smile pulling up one side of his mouth. Sam looks at her too, but his face is edging more on the side of mortification than anything else.

“You seem to know my name without me knowing yours,” Danielle says, crossing her arms and laying them on top of the roof next to Sam, her dark brown eyes flashing in the sunlight. “Maybe Sam can formally introduce us this time?”

Dean pats the roof of the car and looks expectantly at his little brother, who is rubbing a hand over his face.

“Yeah, Sammy. Formally introduce us.”

Sam throws Dean an especially cold glare at the use of his nickname and sighs, waving a hand in the air between Dean and Danielle.

“Danielle, this is my older brother, Dean. Dean, this is Danielle.”

“Hi there,” Dean purrs, propping his elbow up so he can lay his chin in his palm. Sam looks like he is going to puke on Dean’s car.

“Hi, Dean. It’s nice to meet you,” Danielle replies. There’s a hint of a blush in her cheeks, but it isn’t as bright as it was when Dean had first began his act of embarrassing Sam to high heaven. Her eyes don’t linger on Dean any longer than usual, either, facing Sam to ask him something in a low tone. Huh. Sam managed to find the one girl in town that Dean couldn’t charm the pants off of. Either that, or she is just _that_ into Sam. Dean flicks his internal smarmy switch off and places his arm back down onto the sun-heated roof.

“Alright, kiddo, I’m leaving for the house in t-minus 3 seconds, whether you’re in the car or not,” Dean announces. He brings his arm down across the front of his body in a sweeping gesture and bows forward over the roof of the car. “It was _enchanting_ to meet you, Danielle. I’ve heard that I’ll see you in the near future.”

“ _I’ll_ see you in the near future,” Sam interrupts with a roll of his eyes. He lifts his hand and brushes it down Danielle’s arm, offering her a shy and apologetic smile. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.” Danielle’s giggle is cute. “Bye, Sam. Bye, Dean.”

Dean heaves himself back down through the window and into the front seat, letting out a satisfied noise that his butt is on plush leather and no longer falling asleep. Sam clambers into the passenger side, tucking in all of his long limbs and whatnot. He waits until Dean has put the car into gear and is pulling out of the cul-de-sac before he starts railing on Dean about how embarrassing Dean is and what his friends are gonna think and do you even _care_ that these are the kids Sam is going to go to school with for another month and a half, you dumb jerk? Dean zones out during the second half of Sam’s monologue and once he turns onto the dirt road that leads to their house, Dean cranks the volume up so Metallica is pounding mercilessly into their eardrums. It calms Dean down so he can’t hear the rocks that kick up underneath the tires and pelt the underside of his car.

“Are you even gonna apologize?” Sam asks all exasperated when Dean pulls gingerly into the driveway in front of the house.

Dean yanks the keys out of the ignition and turns to Sam with eyebrows raised high.

“Apologize? For what? For announcing to the majority of your school’s population that you have an extremely hot older brother with the coolest fucking car they’ll ever lay eyes on? I don’t know why you’re bitching at me. _Thanking_ me is what you should be doing.” Dean points the car key at Sam with his final sentence to punctuate his point before opening the door and sliding out. He can hear Sam’s scoff of disbelief before he gets out too and Dean smirks, making his way around the car to walk up the porch steps.

Bobby’s safehouse is a cabin-like bungalow with dark wooden panels covering the outside of the entire building. The front door is enclosed in a small porch surrounded entirely by screen, and of course, the porch door protests loudly every time it is opened, like right this very second. Dean holds the door open for Sam to grab so it won’t slam shut and rattle the entire porch. There is a half-hung hammock off to the right side of the porch, the ropes all gnarled and knotted and way too hopeless to attempt to unravel and a rocking chair just beside that. The inside of the house is better. Pale carpet blankets the entire floor except for in the kitchen, which has that fake tile-looking sticker instead. To the left of the front hall was the hallway that branches off into a master bedroom, the one bathroom in the house, and a spare bedroom with two double beds. Straight ahead of the front hall is the living room with a loveseat and one reclining chair and a big chunky television set up on the coffee table. To the right is the aforementioned kitchen which has an island set up with two tall stools and a good deal of counter space.

There’s nothing really to complain about. The AC works, the plumbing hasn’t backed up and the television comes with a VCR so they can rent movies on the weekend and not be bored out of their minds. Overall, a pretty decent setup.

“Dibs on the shower!” Dean calls, already stripping off his clothes and letting them trail behind him like breadcrumbs.

“Fine by me. You reek.”

Dean turns around in the doorway of the bathroom to flip Sam the bird. Sam returns it with equal vigor and tacks on an annoyed eye roll.

“Shut up and make me dinner like the good little housewife you are, Samantha,” Dean says pointedly, closing the door before Sam can start his bitching.

The shower is heaven on his muscles, some of which are tight and really starting to seize up from how much time he spends crouched down at work. Dean scrubs the dirt and grime from underneath his fingernails and off his arms and chest, watching the murky water splash down at his feet before swirling away down the drain. After massaging shampoo into his hair for a few seconds, he rinses off and steps out of the shower. Towelling vigorously at his hair until it's wild and spiky, Dean then wraps the soft cotton around his waist and knots it on his hip so it doesn’t fall open. Not that Sam hasn’t seen him strut around in the nude before, but Sam _is_ making dinner and Dean doesn’t want him to spit in his food or anything.

Dean meanders into the spare bedroom with the two beds, pawing through his dresser to pull out clean briefs and an old grey shirt that used to be Dad’s to change into. It’s too hot to wear trackpants and Sam can handle a little bit of underwear. Tossing the towel over the top of the door to dry, Dean pauses in the doorway, scratching at his stomach through the worn cotton shirt as he looks between the two beds. Sam sleeps in the one nearest to the window and Dean in the one closest to the door.

Dean can’t help but wonder if it’s weird, somehow, for the two of them to actively choose to sleep in the same room next to each other instead of one taking the master and the other being stuck in here. Dean tries to imagine his coworkers and how they would act in the same situation with their siblings. Frowning, Dean shakes his head at himself. Don’t be stupid. It’s just a safety thing for Dean and it’s hard to shut that off. Him being closer to the door means he can kill whatever thing tries to get past him to kill Sam. Obviously. Plus, well, it’s hard to sleep without Sam. His breathing is like a weird lullaby or some shit. Dean couldn’t sleep when he did try out the master bedroom that first night and it took him a few hours until he realized it was because he couldn’t hear Sam breathing. So maybe he’d crawled into the other bed and passed out within minutes to Sam’s soft inhales and exhales and just stayed there ever since. But mainly it’s the safety thing, okay?

Dean turns and pads into the kitchen where Sam is poking at two chicken breasts sizzling in a pan with one hand and stirring a pot of boiling rice with the other.

“There’s a beer for you on the island,” Sam says over his shoulder before he turns one of the chicken breasts over, the hissing noise rising from the stove for a second before settling back to a regular volume.

“Such a good little housewife,” Dean repeats with a content sigh. He grabs the beer Sam mentioned and twists the cap off, tossing it onto the counter before leaning on it to watch Sam work.

Puberty definitely worked in the kid’s favor, that’s for sure. Sam is taller than Dean now by a few inches (even though Dean’s bruised ego will never let him admit it out loud) and he’s filled out from scrawny pre-teen to muscular seventeen year old. The training with Dad and Dean helped develop his arms so they strained under his ratty t-shirts and his legs so he could run a six minute mile. Dean’s not gonna even start on the glimpses he’s caught of Sam’s stomach because, while a six pack has definitely begun to etch itself into his core, Dean still likes to tease his little brother by pinching at his tummy.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Dean rolls his eyes and takes a drink from his beer.

“I’m just trying to figure out what Danielle could possibly see in my little brother besides you being an absolute _nerd_. Is she into that? Nerds?”

Sam shakes his head, two blotchy red spots growing on his cheeks as he shoves the chicken onto a single plate for Dean before spooning the rice in the space next to them.

“You’re such a dick, Dean.”

“And this is news to you?” Dean snorts as he hops up onto one of the island stools with a fork and knife in hand. Sam let the plate fall in front of him with a clatter and Dean digs in, moaning around the meat on his fork.

Sam’s nose wrinkles and he gives Dean a scathing look as Dean shovels three forkfuls of rice into his mouth.

“Keep the pornographic noises to a minimum, will you? And don’t eat so fast, you’re going to puke.”

“Shut up and go get ready for your date,” Dean mumbles around his food. He’s not sure if Sam even understood him but his brother must have deciphered his message because Sam’s off to the bathroom to take his own shower. Dean finishes his meal in a matter of minutes, smacking his lips contentedly as he sits back and pats his stomach. Sliding off the chair, he gathers the dirty dishes and dumps a huge gob of dish soap into the sink before letting it fill with hot water. He’s up to his elbows in suds by the time Sam joins him again with his long wet hair sticking to his forehead.

“Jesus, did you use half the bottle, Dean?” Sam peers over his shoulder with a condescending look, the soft smell of Sam’s spearmint shampoo tickling his nose.

“What? You can never have too much soap.” Dean scowls, scrubbing the cloth against the inside of the pot.

“Actually, yes. You can.”

“God, you’re annoying today,” Dean snaps, rinsing the pot out three times to get rid of all the soapy bubbles. “Quit nagging about my cleaning habits and start telling me about Danielle like you said you would.”

Sam retreats from his perch over Dean’s shoulder and Dean hears one of the stools pull back. Sam starts off a little wobbly as he talks about how smart she is, and how she can hold a conversation with him without referencing any lame pop culture or checking her makeup in a compact mirror. The more Sam talks about her, the more he trips up, catching himself stumbling over his words when he describes her. Dean smiles as he drains the sink. The kid’s practically in love.

“She sounds great, Sam,” Dean concedes, turning around as he wipes his hands and arms off with the kitchen towel. Sam is tapping his fingers nervously on the top of the island, his eyes flicking around the kitchen instead of meeting Dean’s stare. “You ok, kiddo?”

“Stop calling me that.” Sam squirms in his seat with a furrowed brow.

Dean tosses the towel onto the counter and throws his hands up into the air in defeat. “I can’t win with you today. I’m going to take a nap. Wake me when you’re ready and want me to take you over to her house.” Dean lets himself fall over the back of the couch and roll onto the cushions below, closing his eyes as he stretches his whole body out in all directions.

“Uh-“ Panic is evident in Sam’s voice and suddenly he’s at the foot of the couch, hands clasping and unclasping in front of his stomach. “No, that’s okay, Dean, I’m just gonna walk there.”

Dean cracks an eye open and peers over at his brother.

“What’s your issue? You gonna walk all the fuck down that dirt road to meet a girl for your first date? No fucking way.” Dean drops his head back down and closes his eyes once more. “I’ll take you. Go change.”

Dean can feel Sam’s presence at his feet, hovering.

“Sam. I’m not gonna embarrass you and go inside with you or anything. I’m just dropping you off. Chill the fuck out.” Dean grumbles, turning over to face the back of the couch, sleep starting to smudge at the edge of his consciousness.

Sam goes off to their bedroom with a resigned and very pointed sigh, leaving Dean alone enough for him to doze for a good hour or so. That’s when Sam flies into the living room in a flurry, shaking Dean’s arm and rambling about how everything is chaos before darting back into their room. Rolling off the couch, Dean stretches and takes a breath to steel himself for the task of panicked-baby-brother damage control.

Their room has exploded with articles of denim, polyester and cotton. Dean didn’t even know they owned this many clothes. Many of his shirts were mixed in among the assorted piles. Sam is currently between the two beds, knee-deep in a mountain of blue jeans.

“Should I wear shorts?” Sam starts babbling, scrubbing his hand through his hair as he turns on the spot to look between a crumpled ball of cargo shorts and the denim that is brushing his calves. “Would that look stupid? Shorts on a first date? It’s warm out but it’s gonna get cooler at night, right? And what about shirts? How many black shirts do you even own, Dean, have you ever heard of color?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean holds his hands up and raises his eyebrows at his little brother. “Don’t shit on my wardrobe just because you’re panicking over what to wear on your date. And I’ll have you know that Johnny Cash wore black all the time.”

“I don’t care about what Johnny Cash wore!” Sam flails his arms around and Dean can’t help but picture him as an octopus. “I care about what I’m gonna wear! Tonight! In one hour!”

“Calm down!” Dean yells back, picking his way through the disaster of clothes littering the floor. God, he can’t even see the fucking carpet. “Just-Just sit on the fucking bed, I’m gonna pick something for you.”

Sam does as he is told, flustered and bright red and totally giving Dean his best puppy-dog eyes as he waits for Dean to hand him a miracle. Within a few minutes, Dean has managed to pull out a pair of dark blue jeans, a black shirt of Dean’s that is too tight across his chest which means it’ll definitely fit Sam, and a light grey collared button down that is only a little bit wrinkled.

“Here,” Dean says, tossing the clothes into Sam’s face. “Put those on. Leave the grey shirt unbuttoned.”

“Okay,” Sam nods, already kicking off his current pair of pants to pull on the ones Dean just gave him. “Okay.”

Dean’s only watching a little bit as Sam undresses, his eyes drawn to the way Sam’s stomach flexes and how long his torso is when he draws his old shirt up over his half-dried hair. It’s once the black shirt is pulled down over Sam’s head that he starts complaining.

“Dean, how does this even fit you?” Sam yanks at the hem of the shirt, which just so happens to be refusing to go any lower than where it rests above his sharp hipbones. A strip of tanned skin peeks underneath the material before disappearing under the elastic band of his briefs followed by the top of his jeans.

“It’s not my fault that you’re ten feet tall,” Dean snorts, reaching forward to knock Sam’s hands away from his navel. “It’s fine, dude. It’s all part of the look. Put on the grey shirt.”

Sam grumbles something under his breath but shoves his arms through the holes of the shirt nonetheless, rolling the cuffs up to his elbows. Dean skims his eyes up and down Sam’s body, a small coil of heat curling in his belly as he realizes just how much Sam has grown up lately.

The kid looks good. Yeah, he’s slouching like the Hunchback of Notre Something and yeah, he has hair going in three different directions, but… he looks good.

“She’s gonna eat you up,” Dean grins and shakes his head, his fingers moving forward on their own accord to slide into his brother’s floppy hair. The knot in his stomach loosens as he feels the strands slipping against his palm. God, Dean hates Sam’s fucking hair. All long and shit. “Now get to the bathroom so I can attempt to turn you into a presentable date.” Dean pulls a little at Sam’s hair to get him to start moving. Sam answers with a noise in the back of his throat and ducks away from Dean’s hand.

It takes about ten minutes, but with just a bit of Dean’s hair gel and a wet comb, Dean manages to tame Sam’s mane into a state of normalcy. Sam’s unusually quiet the whole time Dean works and Dean brushes it off as him just being nervous.

It isn’t until Dean announces that he’s done as he passes the comb through Sam’s hair one final time that he figures out something is off, because Sam’s reached up and put his hand on top of Dean’s to keep it where it is against his scalp. From where he is standing behind Sam, Dean moves his eyes to the mirror to lock gazes with his brother, who is looking at him with equal intensity and just a hint of fear.

“Sam?” Dean’s question is whisked away in the air as Sam spins around, putting his back to the mirror and bathroom sink, both of their hands dropping to their sides. They would be nose to nose if Sam didn’t have those extra few inches.

“Dean, I need your-“ Sam’s voice rises an octave at the end of his sentence and he clears his throat with a fist to his mouth, looking away before finishing. “I need your help.”

“What’ve I been doing for the past twenty minutes?” Dean scoffs, reaching around Sam to drop the comb onto the counter before standing up straight again. “What’s left? Surely you don’t want me to help you put on cologne, Sammy? I thought you could handle that one on your own.”

“Dean…” Sam sounds exasperated and strained, his eyes digging into Dean’s imploringly enough that a ripple of electricity slips down Dean’s spine.

“What, Sam?” Dean tries to make his tone irritated but it ends up coming out all soft and shit. The fuck? How did that happen?

“It’s just-“ Dean watches Sam’s throat work as he swallows, looking up in time to catch Sam’s eyes tracing the outline of Dean’s mouth before they meet his stare. That coil of flames is back and writhing in the pit of Dean’s stomach, fingers of heat reaching up into his chest to wrap around his heart, which is suddenly pounding. “I haven’t-I’ve never-“ and Sam’s eyes are back on Dean’s fucking lips again.

“Never…?” Dean quirks his eyebrows up a bit with his question because he thinks he knows what Sam is about to say and he really fucking hopes he’s wrong, because if he isn’t wrong-

“I’ve never kissed anyone, Dean! Okay?” Sam bursts out, his hands reaching back for the counter of the sink behind him, knuckles whitening with the tightness of his grip.

“What?” Dean balks, taking a step back. “Dude, you’re-you’re seventeen! What do you mean you’ve never kissed anyone?”

“Oh, thanks, that really makes me feel better.” Sam’s face is flushed with his embarrassment, and fuck, those better not be tears swimming in Sam’s big greens or Dean is gonna lose it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean backpedals, waving his hands in the air in front of him. “Look, I just-You’re a good looking kid!”

Sam’s face contorts for a moment before landing on a confused expression.

Dean rushes on. “You’re not ugly, okay? So I guess I just assumed you’d, you know, at least made it to third base or something, man.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t,” Sam looks down at his feet, clearing his throat twice. “I mean, I’ve kissed people before, I just haven’t… _kissed_ people before.”

“So you’ve done a peck on the lips here and there but nothing more, is what you’re saying?” Dean clarifies, still a little shell-shocked that his little brother is a mouth virgin.

Sam’s head snaps up and he glares at Dean hard enough to raise goosebumps on his arms. “Yes, Dean. How many times do I have to fucking say it?”

“Hey!” Dean retorts. “Excuse me for being a little surprised that my baby brother hasn’t gone any farther with a woman than giving her a goodnight kiss! Jesus.”

“I’m not a baby, Dean,” Sam mumbles, ducking his head to watch his toe dig into the fluffy mat they are standing on.

By now, Sam’s words have finally taken root in Dean’s brain, the tendrils of thought following the pathways with all those neurons firing and shit until Dean realizes exactly what Sam was asking help with. It feels like someone has just elbowed him in the gut, the air in his lungs whistling out of his mouth as Dean stares at his little brother.

“You want me to help teach you how to kiss?” The question is out before Dean even knew he was considering saying it at all, and Sam’s head lifts very, very slowly. The look on his face is answer enough.

Dean’s stepping back again, his hands patting at his hips desperately to find front pockets to shove his fingers into, but he’s in his fucking underwear, dammit, why didn’t he put some fucking pants on?

“Sam, c’mon. That’s-You want me to-Me? I’m your brother!”

“Do I look like I’m fucking stupid, Dean? I know you’re my brother. You’re also the one who cycles through the most women per hour at a bar, so forgive me for thinking you may actually know how to kiss someone.”

A bolt of indignation zings through Dean’s chest and he stops moving backwards. It’s pure ego that leads him forward again, stepping into Sam’s space to shove his pointer finger into Sam’s right pec.

“You think I don’t know _how_?”

“It’s okay if you don’t, Dean,” Sam shrugs, his face suddenly and suspiciously clear of all previous fear and embarrassment. He looks smug now, the bastard, smirking down at Dean like he’s the kid here. “I understand.”

“Hey,” Dean growls, his finger hooking into the black material of Sam’s shirt, which is really Dean’s shirt, and twisting it so it gathers into Dean’s fist. “It’s rude to insult a man’s technique.”

“It isn’t if he doesn’t have any in the first place.”

Okay. So that’s how he wants to play it.

“Alright, Sammy,” Dean yanks his little brother down until their noses are brushing. Dean is close enough to Sam’s face that he could count every single black eyelash framing Sam’s wide, wide eyes. He can feel Sam’s heart thrumming against his knuckles. “Pay attention, ‘cause I’m only doing this once.”

Dean can sense that Sam is building up to some kind of smart-ass remark so before he can really think about it too much, Dean presses up, tilts his face and seals his lips against Sam’s.

It’s weird. It’s really fucking weird. Dean’s only ever kissed girls with their soft, curvy bodies and plump lips and small little hands that press against his chest. This is a boy. This is a boy who also happens to be Dean’s little brother. Dean’s hand is brushing the flat, hard expanse of Sam’s chest, Dean’s lips are fused to the thinner lines of Sam’s mouth, Dean is the one having to stand up on his tiptoes to reach Sam’s lips and it’s all just wrong. He’s freezing up, unable to do anything else except stand there like an idiot who has forgotten how to kiss.

After a moment, Sam pulls away. His eyes are flints of green and he blinks down at Dean, regarding him silently. Dean inches away, loosening the hand that is tangled in Sam’s shirt. What the fuck was that?

“Is that it?” Sam asks slowly with an arched brow. “Because the back of my hand probably could have taught me more than that.”

It's Sam's words that makes the switch inside Dean flip on. Dean’s ego roars to life inside his chest and takes over his body, reaching through his limbs to fasten his palms onto Sam’s hipbones and push him backwards into the countertop. Dean’s mouth follows seconds after, lifting up to smash into Sam’s. A cry is muffled between their lips, but that twisting heat in Dean’s stomach flares and encourages him, so Dean lets his tongue flick out and slip against the seam of Sam’s lips and, shit, they part for him immediately, welcoming him into the wet cave of Sam’s mouth. Dean lines his body up with Sam’s as he dives in, his tongue pushing, pressing, seeking out everything he can to get a taste of his brother. He’s dimly aware that Sam’s hands are resting hesitantly on Dean’s shoulders, so he guides one to his neck and the other down to the small of his back. Sam seems to understand and Dean makes a small noise of approval when he feels the pressure on his back pulling him closer.

It’s just an exercise. Another form of training. These are the thoughts Dean has to have running through his head to keep him from having some sort of mental break. Just teach him.

So he does.

When Sam pushes forward too fast and knocks their teeth together, Dean brings his hands to Sam’s cheeks and gently forces Sam’s face away so he can breathe out for Sam to take it slower, to just enjoy it. The second time Sam captures his lips is better. Softer. A lot better.

When both of them have their mouths open and Sam’s tongue is dancing in an indiscernible pattern, Dean stops him and demonstrates how to glide it along your partner’s just so, how to let them tangle together smooth and slow and slick. Sam’s a quick learner.

When Sam accidentally bites Dean’s lip, Dean tells him it’s okay and demonstrates how to soothe it by sucking Sam’s bottom lip into his mouth and dragging his tongue across it. Any remaining pain that may have been leftover from Sam’s nip is gone the moment Sam mimics Dean’s actions on his lip. They have to stop to breathe afterwards and Dean finds Sam’s eyes wide open and staring down at him, the pools of green and black brimming with an emotion Dean doesn't understand. He uses the pads of his thumbs to bring Sam’s eyelids down.

The next time Sam moves in, Dean can sense the shift. Sam’s hands are more sure, one resting on Dean’s neck with his thumb tucked under Dean’s chin to tilt his head just the way Sam wants and the other is rucking up Dean’s shirt just above his right hip, palm hot against his skin. Whatever is left of Dean’s rational thought is swirling down the drain in the back of his mind because right now, everything just feels right. The way that Sam pulls a hair’s breadth away to let out a small gasp before changing the angles of both of their heads to dive right back into Dean’s mouth, the way that Sam has shifted to the side so he can bring his thigh forward to press against Dean’s crotch, it’s all falling into place like they’ve been doing this for years.

That heat that has been building inside Dean’s stomach is swirling happily, like every push of Sam’s fingers, every noise Sam makes, every shift of Sam’s body against Dean’s all adds to the kindling, feeding the flame.

Logically, a line should be drawn somewhere so that the lesson doesn’t become anything more than just that.

Realistically, there’s no chance in hell that Dean is going to be able to stop kissing his brother until they’ve fused into one being.

Everything is a rush and it feels fucking amazing. Sam’s hand has slipped down to palm the curve of Dean’s ass, bringing him that much tighter against Sam’s body. Dean’s hands had wound themselves into Sam’s drying strands long ago, mussing up the look Dean had so carefully styled minutes before.

Dean’s world tilts backwards for a moment, forcing a protesting noise from his throat as Sam bends forward to wrap his arms around Dean’s thighs before he spins on the spot and drops Dean gracelessly on the lip of the counter. Dean tightens his grip in Sam’s hair to attempt to keep his balance, biting Sam’s lip on accident as he starts to slip down into the bowl of the sink. Sam laughs, fucking _laughs_ , into Dean’s mouth and drags Dean forward so he is molded to the front of Sam’s body and no longer in danger of getting his ass wet from the water in the ceramic basin.

“Jesus,” Dean manages to pant out before Sam leans in and kisses away any further words he may have considered saying.

The concept of time disappears along with Dean’s sense of reality. The only thing that exists in his world are Sam’s fingers digging into his thighs and Sam’s mouth sucking on Dean’s bottom lip again. Dean’s entire world is filled with Sam, is overwhelmed by Sam, his entire world _is_ Sam. Just like it’s always been. Just like it always will be.

It’s his little brother that ends the moment, pulling away with a soft sigh that punches lightly at Dean’s heart. Sam ducks in and kisses Dean with a closed mouth once, twice, three times. As gentle as the look in his eyes once Dean finds strength enough to open his own.

“Guess I should finish getting ready for that date,” Sam whispers, only an inch away. Dean keeps his gaze on Sam’s lips, running the pad of his forefinger over them because he can’t help but be fascinated at how puffy and red and completely inviting they look. He can lean forward, just a bit, and get them back on his if Sam stays still. But Sam doesn’t; he steps backwards and helps bring Dean down off the sink to stand on his own two legs, which are embarrassingly close to giving out.

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice cracks from lack of use and he clears his throat, rubbing at his jaw as he turns to look out the doorway. Sam’s gaze is too intense to hold. “Yeah, you probably should.”

Now that the buzz and the thrill of it has all begun to fade, panic is setting in, spiking up Dean’s arms to snare his heart with prickling fear. Fuck. _Fuck_. He just made out with his little brother.

Pushing Sam to the side so he can get out of this fucking bathroom, Dean struggles to draw air into his lungs as he strides into the kitchen and lays his forehead on the island, arms circling around his head. Dean just made out with his little brother and he was fucking turned on by it, the guilty arousal still singing high and fresh in his blood. Dean’s stomach stutters, as if it’s unsure whether to try to force the contents of Dean’s dinner up his throat or do a dance of sick, twisted happiness.

No. No, Sam had asked for help. Sam wanted that, he wanted Dean’s tongue in his mouth to teach him what to do for his date tonight. Standing up straight, Dean mechanically opens the fridge and pulls out a beer. His fingers are shaking too much to twist the cap off. Swearing, Dean yanks open one of the drawers and fishes out the bottle opener, fumbling for a moment before he can pop the small metal circle off his beer. After three large gulps, Dean feels better. He shouldn’t be freaking out. So what if he got turned on by that? It’s just his body’s natural reaction. Pure animalistic instinct. It has nothing to do with Sam. Absolutely nothing.

“Dean?”

Dean closes his eyes tightly for a beat, takes a breath and turns, opening them again to see Sam with carefully styled hair once again, all traces of where Dean’s fingers had dug into them gone with a swipe of a comb. His little brother is standing near the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he waits. The bright red spots that once sat high on his cheekbones are fading now, only two light pink marks signalling that anything out of the ordinary had ever happened.

“You ready to go?” Dean asks, taking a quick final sip of his beer before setting it down on the counter. Business as usual, man. Get your shit together.

“Um, yeah.” Sam is gnawing on his bottom lip, looking nervous. Dean’s eyes flash down to watch as Sam’s two front teeth peek out to reach over the full curve of his lip. The sight makes the shimmering heat in Dean’s stomach flare and crave and want to be the one biting that mouth. “Look,” Sam continues, bringing Dean’s stare up to meet Sam’s eyes. “I-I can walk, Dean, it’s fine. You don’t have to drive me, really.”

“Shut up, Sam.” Good, that’s good. That’s normal. That’s what Dean would say if this was a normal situation. Which it is. Normal. “I’ve already seen the girl. Why are you pushing this so hard? I’m driving you to her fucking house. What’s the big deal?”

Sam presses his mouth into a tight line and looks at the front door instead of Dean before replying, “Forget it.”

“Okay,” Dean nods, starting towards the door before looking down and stopping in his tracks. “Right. I’m gonna put some pants on. Go wait in the car.”

Sam does as Dean says, but not without an irritated huff. Sam wouldn’t be Sam without it. Dean books it into their room, kicking shirts out of the way until he can find a pair of his own jeans to yank up his legs and over his fast fading erection. Yeah, he _really_ needs to pretend this never happened. Steeling himself, Dean goes back through the living room, grabs his keys and locks the door on his way out.

Sam is sulking in the front seat when Dean slides in. Since he doesn’t seem keen to spill whatever his fucking issue is, Dean ignores it and cranks the volume up so the option of discussing anything, like what just happened in the bathroom, is completely erased. Dean reverses until he’s clear to pull out onto the main road, wrinkling his nose as the Impala dips down into potholes and rumbles over the uneven path. He needs to have a talk with the city mayor or whoever the fuck deals with paving roads and shit.

Sam doesn’t speak except to give directions and, of course, when he does tell Dean where to go, he has to be a little bitch and whip the volume dial down so the music is barely a murmur. By the time Dean pulls onto the gravel in front of a nice two-story, they both are bristling with the weird wiry tension thrumming between them.

Dean taps his fingers aggressively on the wheel, his eyes boring straight through the windshield as he waits for Sam to get pissy, get out and slam the door in his usual manner. But Sam’s just fucking sitting there, with his long fucking legs and stupid long hair and Jesus, is he wearing Dean’s cologne? Unable to stop himself, Dean turns and stares at his brother incredulously. Sam meets his gaze evenly.

“I borrowed some of your cologne.” Sam states like he can read Dean’s mind. Fuck, he probably can. Either that or Dean is an open fucking book.

Dean grunts his acknowledgement, not trusting his voice because it may do something stupid like ask Sam if Dean can shove his tongue down his throat again.

Shaking his head, Sam breaks their heavy eye contact, twisting to place his fingers on the handle of the door. He’s moving, finally going to get out of the car so Dean can make his way back to the house and drown himself in alcohol to wash this entire night down the drain with the rest of his poor life choices. Except then he pauses. Sam stops, turns and reaches forward, his hand catching and pulling on the black loop of twine that holds the brass amulet he gave Dean all those years ago. When Sam kisses Dean, it’s quick and it’s soft, just a simple push of lip against lip with the slightest of parts before it’s over. After Dean has managed to force his eyes open, he finds Sam hovering just a few inches away, his wide, bright eyes dancing between both of Dean’s. Dean’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Thanks for the lesson, Dean.” Sam whispers, his gaze moving over Dean’s face like a caress. Then he’s gone, a cool, brisk wave of night air sweeping into the car as Sam shuts the door behind him.

Dean is frozen in shock as he watches his brother’s figure trek up the path to the front door, his tall body outlined by the porch light as he waits for the door to open. A guy who looks to be around Dean’s age is the one who greets Sam, a bright smile on his face that Dean can see even from this distance. Dean watches as Sam’s head turns over his shoulder, just once, to stare at where Dean is parked. That’s about all he can take. Not even checking his mirrors, Dean pulls back onto the road with a skid, the back wheels of the Impala kicking up dirt and rocks behind him as he roars onto the black asphalt. He doesn’t let himself look back.

Dean is very, very drunk by the time Sam gets home. He’s lounging on the couch, the TV blaring some sort of nonsense that Dean lost track of after his eighth beer. He hears the door open before he sees it. Gathering himself up onto his elbows, Dean squints over his feet to find Sam’s back crossing the threshold as he waves to someone Dean can’t see. Sam turns and shuts the door, kicking off his shoes before looking up. Dean opens his mouth to say hi when the words halt in his throat and tumble together into a lump like a three car pile up on the highway.

It’s funny how the only way he can know what Sam looks like after a vigorous make out session is because they had one just a few hours before, but for some reason, it knees Dean in the gut to see Sam’s lips pink and puffy and newly abused and know that it wasn’t because of him. That twisting, green finger of envy is carving its nail down the back of Dean’s brain to let ugly, polluted thoughts pour into his head and down his spine, making Dean curl forward and suck in wind to try and come back to himself.

Okay. So Dean’s jealous. Dean’s jealous that someone else kissed his little brother, that someone else had their hands on his face and in his stupid hair and that it wasn’t him.

But Sam doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know about the dirty feelings that are soaking Dean’s very bones with self-loathing and disgust, or how he wants to pollute his little brother even further with his tongue and his hands and his body.

“Whowazzat?” Dean slurs, frowning as the words come out in one long mess of a sentence. He's drunker than he realized.

Sam’s eyes are reproaching as they bounce around the collection of empty beer bottles littering the floor next to the couch, but they find Dean’s after a moment and hold his gaze.

“Danielle’s brother. He has a car, he offered to drop me off afterwards.”

Dean nods sagely, squinting down to watch his socked toes wiggle where they are propped up on the other arm of the couch.

“Did, uh-“ Dean clears his throat and lifts his head, his eyes sluggishly moving up the line of his brother’s body, taking in the long length of his legs and the strip of skin peeking out from under his shirt and the way that the grey collar of his second shirt is half turned up on one side. Dean knows he’s gonna hate himself even more if he finishes this sentence. He does it anyway. “Did she like it?” Dean knows that Sam will understand what he’s asking.

Sam’s face spasms with an emotion that disappears before Dean can even think of deciphering it, instead smoothing out into a carefully neutral expression.

“Yeah,” he replies, shifting his weight onto his other foot as he shoves his hands in his back pockets. “Loved it.”

The hot, jealous hand inside Dean’s hollow cave of a chest grips his stomach tight and twists up.

“Good,” Dean chokes out, swinging his legs over the side of the couch and around the mess of empties so he can stand up. “Glad I could be of service.”

“Dean-”

He waves Sam’s plea away, slowly making his way to the master bedroom. No way he can begin to fathom sleeping in the same room as his brother. Not tonight.

“Tell me more in the morning so I can actually remember it,” Dean tries to say in a teasing way, but his voice is brittle and on the edge of shaking. He knows he hasn’t convinced Sam because he hasn’t even convinced himself.

As he passes Sam on the way into the hall, Dean’s eyes catch on the tag sticking out from the back of Sam’s shirt, completely visible due to it being inside out. The vice around his heart constricts hard enough to hurt.

“Rookie mistake.” Dean smiles tightly and reaches forward to pull at the small cloth square.

Sam pales, his wide eyes growing even bigger as his fingers fumble against the back of his shirt to find the tag that exposed him.

Fighting back the bile that is burning up his throat, Dean turns and forces himself to walk faster until he passes through the threshold of the master bedroom. Closing the door, Dean goes and sits heavily on the side of the bed with his head in his hands, trying to forget that he ever saw that Sam’s shirt was inside out because if he thinks about it, then that means he has to think about fingers that aren’t his pushing the material off of Sam’s shoulders and Dean really can’t fucking handle that right now.

Dean’s done a lot of stupid things in his life. But this? This takes the cake. How delusional can he really be? How could he have let himself leap so blindly over the clearly taboo line carved between the two of them with no thought as to what may result once his feet touched back down to earth? It’s not like Dean knew he was going to want this again once it was done. How could he have known? But the fact of the matter is that he does. He wants it again, wants it so badly that his entire body aches. Every fibre of Dean’s being is buzzing and begging for him to break out of his self-enforced solitary confinement, to climb into Sam's bed next to his brother and drape himself over Sam instead of the cotton sheets they lie on.

Shaking his head, Dean lets himself fall backwards into the mattress, his eyes open and staring but seeing nothing.

It’s gonna fade, this feeling churning in the pit of his stomach. It has to. This can’t overshadow everything that Sam and Dean have going for them. They’ve never been closer, never been able to be so purely open and honest with each other, and that’s important. That’s so fucking important. Dean’s not open and honest with fucking anybody, but he is with Sam, and it’s just not an option to throw that away.

Sleep begins to hedge away Dean’s panicked stream of consciousness, cutting back the fear that is making his heart beat just a little too fast. It’s going to be okay. Dean’s faked confidence and bravado for more than half his life. He definitely can handle pretending that that stupid kiss was nothing more than a lesson with Dean as teacher and Sam as student. He was just doing his duty as big brother. That’s all. Everything is going to be fine.

And over the next few weeks, it is fine. Dean smiles, Dean teases, Dean helps pick out six more outfits for six more dates, and it’s all fine. Sam’s still weird about Dean giving him a ride, which Dean ignores, and after he gets dropped off two more times by Danielle’s brother, Dean starts insisting that he pick Sam up instead, much to Sam’s annoyance.

Then comes the night where everything finally clicks into place.

It’s a Saturday and Dean is pulling into the parking lot of the garage after being called in by the owner. There’s an 18-wheeler that broke down up north on the main road that had to be towed to the only garage in a fifty mile radius and they need all hands on deck.

Dean figures that it’s going to take at least half the day, putting him back home around dinner time, so he gives Sam a quick call to let him know. Sam says that it’s fine, that he has homework he can do while Dean’s away and that dinner will be ready by the time Dean gets back. See? Everything’s fine.

The first few hours fly by with Dean under the hood of the truck, up to his elbows in black grease and hot metal as he and his coworker Roger try to find out just what the fuck caused this thing to break down. It’s noon by the time Roger yells something along the lines of “Eureka!” and starts pulling at wires and tubes. Dean tries to offer his help but Roger assures him that this really isn’t as big a deal as they thought and that Dean can take off early. Dean protests at first, adamant that he can stay and assist Roger with whatever he needs, but his words are waved away.

So Dean catches a break. He slides into the Impala and eases onto the road that will take him back to the house for a well-deserved nap and a nice lunch. On second thought, Dean pulls into the small video store and takes out a couple movies for him and Sam to watch. The kid’s homework can wait til tomorrow, it’s Saturday, for Christ’s sake. Snagging some chips and an eight-pack of beer from the convenience store across the road, Dean throws his treasures into the passenger seat next to him and guns it home, a stupid smile gluing itself to his face at the thought of just hanging out with his brother for the afternoon.

Color Dean confused when he pulls slowly up the gravel driveway outside their house to find another car parked there. Dean cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, staring hard out his window at the vehicle parked next to his own. Who the fuck could be here? This wasn’t Pastor Jim’s truck, or the car that John had stolen just before he’d taken off. It looks familiar, the recognition struggling to come to full bloom in Dean’s head. Gathering the items from the seat next to him, Dean cautiously steps out of the Impala and gently closes the door behind him.

With his free hand, Dean lays his palm on the hood of the stranger’s car. It’s cool, which means it’s been here for at least a couple of hours. Frowning, Dean turns to stare up at the house. As he moves up to the porch steps, something inside of him whispers for him to be quiet as he enters, so he pulls the porch door open just enough for him to squeeze through and not have it squeak to give away his presence. Dean toes off his work boots with only small difficulty and pads forward in his socks to the front door, his hand resting on the knob as he stares at the peeling paint before him.

Moment of truth. Dean’s heart is beating hard and loud in his ribcage, strong enough to rattle bones. Why is he hesitating? It’s his fucking house. He deserves to know who is here with Sam.

The thought of his brother being alone with someone Dean doesn’t know pushes a freezing icicle of fear into Dean’s chest and the next thing he knows, Dean is in the house, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Dean can hear noises coming from down the hall to his left. Curiosity leads him to the edge of the open doorway leading into the spare room that Sam and Dean share, fear makes him press his back flat along the wall just outside it. Low murmurs manage to breach the resounding thumps of his blood pumping in Dean’s ears, so at least Dean knows that Sam isn’t dead or otherwise currently being tortured within an inch of his life. They’re just talking or something. Dean’s not quite sure why he continues to hold on for dear life to the three bags of chips, two video cassettes and the beer, but they seem to be superglued to his arm, like a safety blanket of junk food and badly written movies.

It just takes a second, a single moment suspended in time, for Dean to muster up the courage to take a step forward and turn to look into the bedroom. It’s a second that he’s going to regret for the rest of his life.

Sam’s there, in the room. He’s alive, which is a plus. He isn’t being maimed either, which is ideal. But he is being pinned to the mattress of Dean’s bed by someone. A someone that is a guy. A guy that is spreading his baby brother’s jean-clad legs open so he can shift forward between them and get that much closer to Sam’s body.

It hurts, physically _hurts_ , watching Sam’s hands grasp the face of the strange man (and it is a man, the guy is probably Dean’s age, Jesus Christ) and pull him down to press their lips together in a tight line. Dean has the side view of the entire interaction, his feet apparently growing roots without his knowledge because he tries to move, he really does, but he’s in it for the long haul now, a mere spectator to a scene he wishes he had never walked in on. He can hear Sam mewling and gasping as the stranger works his hips down into Sam’s, his low voice encouraging Sam in a rough tone. Despite every other action occurring on the bed, Dean’s eyes keep getting pulled up to where they’re kissing. That’s when Dean’s stomach turns to shreds because he’s watching Sam suck this guy’s bottom lip into his mouth, like Dean had shown him how to, and he’s working his tongue in the guy’s mouth like a pro, like Dean had shown him how to, and it’s all with a guy that is _not Dean_.

His body tenses up, which means his arm tightens against the side of his body. Except there’s a barrier of chips and beer and movies that is stopping his arm from moving forward to wrap around the black hole that’s swallowing Dean from the inside out, and the bags crinkle loudly as they protest the sudden shifting movement. Dean’s lungs shake as they seize up and cut off his supply of oxygen because Sam is turning and looking and his eyes are on Dean’s and the look of complete and utter terror pouring from his little brother’s shimmering greens is enough to make Dean drop everything and run.

Dean’s out the front door and stumbling down the porch steps in his socks before he can even register that he’s moving at all. Blinded by the sudden onslaught of tears flooding his vision, Dean runs head on into the front grill of the Impala, bending in half over the hood from the force of his hit before he heaves in a gasp and pushes off the still-warm metal to grab the driver’s side door handle. Sam is there somewhere in the background shouting his name, but his voice is muffled once Dean is in the car and slamming the door shut, the walls of leather and metal and glass blanketing Dean in a temporary silence before Sam is at the passenger side window, slamming his hand on the glass. Dean is turning the key in the ignition before he realizes too late that he hasn’t locked the doors and as his fingers scrabble to shove the lock down on Sam’s door, Sam rips it open and leans in. Dean retreats immediately, shying back to the driver’s side to throw the car in reverse and hover his foot on the gas.

“Get out, Sam.” Dean says hoarsely. He’s too scared to even try to gun the car backwards with Sam hanging off the door because the only thing worse than the situation Dean just walked in on is one where Sam gets hurt because of him.

“Dean, _listen to me_ ,” Sam begs, one hand stretching forward, seeking Dean’s arm and the solace that Dean might calm down if he can just get his fingers on Dean’s skin, but Dean sucks in a gasp and wrenches his arm out of reach. Hurt flickers across Sam’s already tear-streaked face and he curls his hand back to clutch at the front of his shirt, right over his heart. “Okay.” Sam chokes out and proceeds to throw his body into the passenger seat, the door shutting hard enough behind him to rock the Impala back and forth for a few sways. “I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”

“Get out, Sam, or I swear to God. Get out.”

“No, Dean!” Sam yells, slapping his palm hard on the dashboard. “Not until you fucking listen to me!”

Dean rips his eyes away from his brother to glare straight ahead and his blood chills in his veins. The guy who had his fingers and his mouth and his body all the fuck over his little brother is standing on the porch, holding the door open so he can take in the scene before him: Sam pleading at Dean while Dean bores holes into his face.

It finally clicks inside Dean’s head, where Dean knows this guy from, the gears that have been stuttering and protesting and grinding in the wrong direction suddenly slipping and falling into place. It’s Danielle’s brother, the one who opened the door the first time Dean had dropped Sam off for his date.

“I’m gonna kill him.” Dean says softly, the words falling from his mouth in a tone void of emotion. It should scare him, how empty he feels, but it doesn't. Everything just blurs around him as Dean tilts his head to the left a little with a robotic, calculating look as he takes in the man’s dark hair and blue eyes and slim build, evaluating any potential weak spots. Then he's throwing the car into park, his door is creaking open and he’s stepping outside. He can hear Sam swear and yell his name through the glass of his window as Dean’s legs bring him closer and closer to the guy who was touching _his_ brother, _his_ Sammy, fists curling in preparation to meet flesh and bone. The fear that contorts the man’s face only eggs Dean on and Dean’s arm is pulling back, muscles tight as a drawn bowstring, only to suddenly have a hundred and sixty pounds grab hold of it and drop like a stone. Sam collapses to his knees with his arms wound around Dean’s, dragging him off-balance hard enough that a loud “Fuck!” leaves Dean’s mouth, punctuating the heavy tension in the air.

“Leave, Aaron, just fucking go!” Sam shouts as he tightens his hold on Dean. Aaron tries to give Dean a wide berth so he can reach his car but Dean gathers himself enough to lunge forward, his one free arm just long enough to be able to twist his fingers in the collar of Aaron’s shirt and haul him so close to Dean’s face that their noses brush.

“You ever touch my brother again and I’m gonna break every single bone in your body.” The promise falls cold and dead from his lips, and Dean watches Aaron’s face fade from a bright red flush to an alarming shade of white.

“Dean!” Sam shouts from his side, the fear and anger that curl around the sound of his name jarring him back to reality. Dean shoves Aaron away from him, hard enough that the guy stumbles backwards and nearly loses his footing.

“Sam-“ Aaron has the gall to choke out, his panicked gaze flicking down to look at Dean’s little brother.

Dean’s eyes flare and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline because _wow_ , this guy really has a death wish, doesn’t he?

“Man, have you got a set of balls on you.” Dean growls as he tries to start forward again. Sam’s loosened his hold on Dean’s arm but that’s only because he’s become a wall between Dean and Aaron with his enormous paws for hands pushing back on Dean’s chest.

“Dean, don’t touch him. Don’t you fucking touch him.” Sam’s fingers tighten around the bones in Dean’s shoulders but they may as well be squeezing the life out of Dean’s heart.

With a furious noise, Dean smacks Sam's arms away from his body and twists around to get back to the Impala. Aaron is already in his car, pulling out and flooring it down the dirt path, away from Sam and his psychotic brother. Dean wrenches the driver's door open and lets his body collapse onto the leather.

Once Dean is in the front seat, his car still idling, Dean just sits there. He suddenly has no desire to further track down Aaron and wring his neck. He just feels tired, drained, like the life had been sucked out of him when he poured all of his anger and hurt and frustration into the words he spit at the guy who had his mouth on his little brother.

Sam is standing in front of the Impala, his body half turned towards the house, but his head is turned towards Dean. Dean can feel the holes burning into his face from Sam's eyes. It makes him want to claw the skin from his cheeks.

He only gets another moment of solitude before Sam is moving to the passenger door and pulling it open with a creak. Dean closes his eyes as Sam's weight settles on the leather next to him. He takes comfort in the darkness that swallows his sight because at least he can imagine that the black hole swirling in his stomach has finally been able to crunch his body down into a state of non-existence.

This is how they end up sitting in the front seat with the Impala's engine rumbling through the thick silence building between them. This is where Dean paws through his memories and tries to justify himself as being a good big brother who has only ever looked out for Sam. It's been his job, his responsibility, his duty. Now he's ruined it, screwed everything up and it's his fault. It's his fault.

 

\---

 

So here Dean is, in the present, wishing with every bone in his body that he had said no when Sam had asked him for help on that godforsaken night. If he had, they wouldn't be here right now, teetering on the edge of a cliff and toeing the point of no return. Because there is no going back now. There's no going back for either of them.

"You never went on a date with Danielle, did you?"

Dean is staring sightlessly through the windshield, his eyes roaming the dark wood of the house in slow patterns. He can hear Sam sigh and shift back into his seat.

"No."

"She was just a cover for you."

Sam hesitates.

"Yes."

"So you could lie to my face and not feel like shit for it."

"Dean, no. That's not fair." Sam protests, turning and tucking one leg under his body so he can face Dean.

Dean reaches forward and delicately turns the car off, the keys jingling lightly in his hands as he pulls them out of the ignition.

"Jesus, I'm stupid," Dean murmurs, a sick little giggle bubbling up the back of his throat. It leaks out, starting as a chuckle before escalating to a choking, painful, full-on laugh. "I'm so fucking stupid. You said people. You said you've kissed _people_ when you asked me to teach you how to-" The words cut off in a gargle as Dean's throat constricts tight enough for him to bring a hand up to his neck. He pauses for a second before whispering, "You said people."

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam is reaching forward again, his fingers lighting softly on Dean's forearm. Dean shivers as goosebumps break out from where Sam's hand touches his skin. "I'm sorry for lying to you about Danielle. I was scared, okay? Jesus, can't you see that? I didn't _want_ to lie to you. It started with her offering to be a cover for us because she _knew_ , just from watching Aaron and I talk whenever he came to pick her up, but it all just spun out of control and I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry-"

Dean slowly turns his head to look at Sam, his brow creasing as his eyes danced between both of Sam's which are brimming with tears.

"Why didn't you just tell me, Sam?" Dean ignores the way his voice cracks because the words are pouring out of his mouth like a fountain of betrayal and he's lost the rubber stopper somewhere inside the pit in his stomach. "Why couldn't you just be fucking honest with me? I thought we were close, I thought-" Dean loses all the breath in his lungs and it takes a moment for him to find it again. "I thought you trusted me."

Sam's face crumples and tears break through the frame of his eyelashes to slip down his cheeks.

"It's not that, Dean. It's not that I don't trust you. I trust you with my fucking _life_ -"

"Then why, Sam?!" Dean knocks Sam's hand off his forearm because all of his nerves are singing and it hurts to have Sam touch him, it just fucking hurts, and he can't concentrate.

"Because I didn't want you to hate me!" The cry that breaks from Sam's lips is followed by a choked sob. Sam's hand flies to his mouth to cover it, his eyes wide and streaming with tears and it swallows all the air out of Dean's lungs. "Because I didn't want you to look at me like I'm some kind of freak!"

Dean finally understands what the word "heartbroken" means because his has shattered completely into dust. His hands are moving, petting down Sam's trembling arms, reaching around his back to gather him against Dean's chest because no, no, there's no way Sam could ever think that him being who he is would make Dean love him any less.

"No, Sam, no," Dean's whispering in Sam's hair just above his ear, one hand clamped on the back of his little brother's head to keep Sam nestled in the crook of Dean's neck. "I could never hate you, you idiot. You're my entire fucking world."

Another sob wracks Sam's body and his hands scrabble at Dean's chest, digging into the front of his t-shirt like he's drowning and the only way he can stay afloat is by holding onto his brother. Dean just cradles Sam to his body, rocking them gently from side to side as he combs his fingers through Sam's hair.

Once Sam has calmed down enough to sit up, Dean uses the hem of his shirt to wipe away the tears from underneath Sam's reddened eyes.

"Are you hearing me?" Dean prompts, capturing Sam's face between his palms. His voice is quiet but commanding so that Sam lifts his gaze to meet Dean's. "I'm never gonna hate you, Sam. Never. Especially not because of who you like or don’t like."

"You're not-" Sam hiccups a little and a warm blanket of fondness wraps around Dean's heart as he stares at his little brother in his hands, looking so soft and vulnerable and child-like. "You're not freaked out that I like guys too?"

"Fuck no," Dean shakes his head for emphasis, his fingers tightening on Sam's cheekbones. "It doesn't change the fact that you're still my pain in the ass little brother, does it?"

Sam turns his head from side to side in Dean's palms, silently saying no.

"Exactly." Dean says, his voice getting rough from the tears that are threatening to break free. He pulls Sam forward into another hug, his arms tightening across the line of his brother's shoulders. "I'm always gonna be here for you, Sammy. I'll support you no matter what. You gotta know that."

"I do," Sam's answer is muffled into the crook of Dean's shoulder. "I do, Dean."

"Okay." Dean leans back again and lets out a big sigh, any lingering anger from his earlier encounter with Aaron getting pushed out of his lungs. Sam stays near, his eyes on his fingers that are running up and down the inch or so of leather that separates the two of them. Dean takes a second and mulls over the idea of seeing Sam holding hands with a guy, sharing a plate of fries with a guy, cuddling under the sheets with a guy, and in each scenario that comes to mind, it's him. He's holding Sam's hand and eating fries and curling around Sam's back. Christ, he is fucked up. Pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, Dean clears his throat and tries to distract himself by asking Sam questions.

"Isn't he a bit old for you?" What a stupid fucking question, Dean, seriously? Out of everything you could have said?

"He's 21. Same age as you." Sam's voice is quiet and close to Dean's ear.

Dean looks at Sam from the corner of his eye.

"So the answer is yes, then."

Sam flushes but holds Dean's stare defiantly, some hidden message brewing in the depths of his pupils that Dean can't quite make out. God, sometimes this kid confuses the shit out of him.

"No. I'm nearly 18, Dean. I'm not a kid, I can know what I want."

Dean drops his hand and chews on the inside of his cheek as he considers Sam's words.

"He's still too old for you." Dean decides, tapping on the bottom of the steering wheel.

Sam makes some kind of noise in the back of his throat that forces Dean's head to turn and look at him. Sam is close. Really close. And his fingers are tangling in Dean's necklace again, sliding down to encompass the amulet.

"Don't say that." Sam says, a whisper that sends chills slithering down Dean's spine. He's pulling on the amulet, bringing Dean to him like a dog on a leash. Air is struggling to climb back into Dean's lungs and he can't stop staring at the shape of Sam's mouth which is close, so close. The twine is digging into the back of Dean's neck and he thinks that it's one of the best things he's ever felt in his life because it's leading him right to Sam, right to a place he's always considered home.

The moment is shattered by a high pitched ring trilling from Dean's back pocket. They both start and Dean swears, fumbling to get his cell phone out from the confines of his jeans before pressing it to his ear and barking out an irritated "What?"

Sam still hovers inches away, his chest rising and falling rapidly as his eyes dart over the planes of Dean's face.

"That's the way you greet your father?" A rough voice answers sharply in Dean's ear. His blood runs cold. Dean lifts his free hand to shove Sam's arm away and he's out of the Impala in two seconds flat, leaning heavily on the hood of the car as he struggles to control his panic.

"Dad! Dad, I-Sorry, sir, just bad timing."

"You're not with a girl, are you?" John asks gruffly. Dean's eyes find Sam, who is climbing out from the passenger's side of the car with a hurt expression on his face.

Dean turns his back on his brother, rubbing a hand across his forehead as he replies through gritted teeth.

"No, sir. I'm not with a girl."

"Good," John's response is clipped and brisk. "I need you and Sam to start packing. I'm a few hours out and we need to get back on the road right after I pick you boys up. There's a kelpie infestation wreaking havoc in Louisiana that we need to take care of."

"Yessir."

"You boys get something on your stomach before I arrive, understand? I'm not stopping until we're through at least two state lines."

"Yessir."

John grunts his goodbye and Dean ends the call, staring down at the small rectangle in his palm.

"Dad?" Sam ventures from behind Dean.

"Yeah. Time to start packing, Sammy." Dean steels himself and tucks the phone away, wiping his sweating palms off on the thighs of his jeans as an afterthought. The feeling of getting caught while doing something dirty is still itching underneath Dean's skin and he feels to need to take three showers to scrub his entire body until it's bright pink and sensitive.

"Dean, I-" Sam starts to say but Dean's already up the porch steps and holding the door open.

"Let's go, Sam."

After hesitating for just a moment, Sam follows, his face darkened by a mask of poorly hidden irritation. Dean ignores it and lets himself into the house. He starts collecting any personal items he can find within reach, a phone charger here, a stray wife beater there, anything to keep his hands busy. Sam heads for the rooms and, out of the corner of Dean's eye, he can see Sam halt and stare at something on the floor. Dean steps back so he can get a clearer view of the hall and squints at the ground in front of Sam.

Oh.

Sam squats down onto the balls of his feet, his hands hovering above the items that had spilled from Dean's arms when he had walked in on Sam and Aaron. A lump begins to build in Dean's throat, a new brick stacking on top of the quickly growing pile as he watches Sam gingerly start to pick each of the items up. Once they’re all in Sam’s arms, he walks towards Dean, his eyes glued to the two movies he is holding in one hand. Dean shifts his weight around from one foot to the other as he watches something akin to sadness flicker across his brother’s face before he looks up and paralyzes Dean with his eyes.

“You got these for us today?” Sam asks softly.

Dean shrugs and scuffs one of his dirty socks on the carpet a couple of times.

“Yeah, well...not much point in any of it now, is there?” Dean grumbles.

Sam stares at Dean silently for a moment before saying, “If we clean up really fast, I bet we can still have time to watch one of them before Dad gets back.”

Something so simple shouldn’t make Dean feel like he is going to explode from happiness, yet here he is, practically bursting out of his skin because his brother wants to watch a movie with him.

“Yeah,” Dean concedes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I bet we can.”

They manage to get through both.

John pulls into the space next to the Impala in his stolen car just as Sam and Dean are putting away the dishes they used to make their early dinner. The next fifteen minutes is a flurry of activity that starts with John clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder and ruffling Sam’s hair and ends with all of them throwing their bags into the trunk of the Impala. Dean presents John with the eight pack of beer as a welcome home present since there's no way he and Sam could've gotten away with finishing it off before he arrived. He gets a one armed hug as thanks.

When they leave, John drives ahead of Sam and Dean so he can find an off-road to abandon the stolen vehicle. Dean slides to the passenger side of the front seat to allow John to take the wheel, forcing Sam to scramble into the back with a punch to Dean’s shoulder.

They hit the road to the sound of Zeppelin and, true to Dad’s word, don’t stop until they cross two state lines and hit Texas. John pulls off to a motel just outside of Amarillo, grunting that they’re going to have to put up with sharing a bed tonight unless one of them wants to sleep in the backseat of the Impala. Sam is awful quick to pipe up from the backseat and say that it’s fine, they can deal. Dean’s eyes meet Sam’s in the rearview mirror and he can see that Sam is smiling.

It’s past two in the morning by the time they have settled in their motel room and changed into their sleeping gear, which basically means they’re all in big t-shirts and their underwear. Dean wants to keep his pants on, and would if he knew that Dad would let it slide, but he can’t deal with the possibility of Dad asking probing questions. Just act like everything is normal and that you never made out with your little brother. Easy peasy.

Dad collapses into the bed closest to the door and is snoring within minutes, his deep breathing cutting through the heavy silence that envelops the two brothers. Dean drags his feet as he gets ready for bed, trying to draw out the inevitable after seeing Sam leap into the bed and settle in immediately. Climbing into the queen bed with Sam taking up the entire other half of the mattress is very distracting because Sam’s on his side, his head propped up on his fist as he watches Dean pull the sheets up to his chest.

Dean is all too aware that their father is mere feet away. The big brother side of Dean is battling the irrational side of Dean; one is demanding that Dean look at their father only an arm’s reach away and decide if he really has a death wish, while the other is coaxing Dean to roll and face Sam, to reach forward and fist his hand in his brother’s shirt and touch him in every conceivable way just to be able to swallow Sam’s noises with his tongue.

Dean settles for going the fuck to sleep.

He shifts onto his back, tucks both arms underneath his pillow and his head, and closes his eyes. Besides the low hum of the air conditioner, the only other sound in the room is three different pitches of breathing. Dean is focusing all of his energy on forcing his lungs to slowly pull air in and slowly push air out, because if he didn’t, then he would be distracted by the feeling of Sam wiggling his body past the middle of the bed to press up against Dean’s left side.

“Dean.” It’s a faint murmur that tickles Dean’s ear and his head twitches a little at the sensation, but he otherwise does not respond. Sam is more insistent this time. “ _Dean_.”

Dean pretends that he’s deaf.

When Sam tries to get his attention the third time, it works, mainly because it consists of Sam reaching down and cupping Dean's crotch tightly in the palm of his hand. Dean sucks in a wild gasp and his arms fly up from behind his head to grab Sam's forearm.

"Sam, what the _fuck_ -" Dean chokes out in a low hiss, his fingers digging into muscle as he tries to shove Sam away because, Jesus Christ, all the blood that first shot up to color Dean's cheeks is now moving south and this is bad, this is really fucking bad.

Sam allows Dean to push his hand away but the look in his eyes tells Dean that this is far from over. Once Sam's arm is back in his body space, Dean lets his own hand reach up and grab at his thumping heart. This fucking kid is going to send him into cardiac arrest.

"You gonna listen to me now?" Sam mutters as he props himself up on his elbow again, his eyes looking black in the darkness of the room.

“Are you insane? You know Dad’s a light sleeper.” Dean growls back as quietly as he can. “Go to sleep, Sam.”

“He’s out like a light, Dean. You just don’t want to talk to me.”

Well, yeah.

“Go to sleep.” Dean says again as he turns onto his side, giving Sam a view of his back. What even is there to say?

Dean thinks that Sam has received the message loud and clear when he hears Sam settling back down on his side. There’s a lull as Dean remains tense, expecting something to happen. After a few minutes, nothing does, so Dean lets out a long, low breath and relaxes his muscles. He sinks into the mattress, his eyelids drooping shut as he welcomes the heat blanketing him. Then the heat shifts and Dean is wide the fuck awake as Sam slides the front line of his body up against Dean’s back and legs.

Dean begins to turn, his lips parting to start his bitching when Sam’s mouth envelops them in a searing kiss and every thought that Dean currently had stewing in his head melts and pours down his spine. Sam’s fingers lift and trace Dean’s jaw until they reach his chin. That’s when Sam pulls away, just an inch away so he’s panting into Dean’s face, Dean’s heart is about to give out, and pushes his thumb up to drag along Dean’s bottom lip which is slick with his spit. All Dean can do is stare at his brother wordlessly, his eyes wide as they rake over Sam’s hair and face and lips because this person here? The one sliding the pad of his thumb into Dean’s mouth and pressing it onto Dean’s tongue? The one with pupils so wide that there is barely a strip of green left to hug the outside of them? Dean doesn’t know him. Dean has never seen this side of Sam before.

Pressing up tighter against Dean’s back, Sam buries his face into Dean’s neck and moves the hand currently in Dean’s mouth down the front of Dean’s chest to his stomach. It doesn’t take much for Sam to arrange Dean just how he wants him, getting Dean’s ass tight against his crotch and his back seamlessly fused to Sam’s chest. At this point, all Dean can do is focus on breathing in and out.

When Sam bites down on the soft spot where Dean’s shoulder meets his throat, Dean convulses, his entire body shaking from the shock that Sam just fucking dug his teeth into his skin. It doesn’t even begin to compare to what it feels like when Sam does it again, and this time, accompanies it with a roll of his hips. Dean has been able to feel Sam’s dick nudging up into the crack of his ass through their underwear, but he simply chose to ignore it in favor of pretending that this wasn’t happening in the bed right next to their fucking _father_. He can’t ignore it anymore when Sam nudges his thigh in between both of Dean’s, his leg tensing and rising up to brush at Dean’s growing erection. Dean whimpers and buries his face into his pillow, his fingers clawing into the fluffy down feathers, heavy pants shuddering from his lips as he tries to get ahold of himself.

“It was an experiment, you know.” Sam’s mouth is at Dean’s ear as he punctuates the end of his sentence with a second roll of his hips, the soft words licking into his brain, spreading their fingers wide and squeezing tight enough that his head starts pounding. “I needed to see what it felt like to be with a guy because I needed to know if it was gonna make me feel different than how I feel about you.”

Dean’s eyes shoot open just as Sam grinds into him again, the molten lava that is bubbling and building in Dean’s stomach starting to rise up to a concerning level. Speech has failed Dean. Sam’s words have stolen his own away, wiping him clean of any possible intelligible response. If Sam was saying what Dean thinks he's saying, then Dean's reading the message loud and clear judging by the way Sam's hand is cupping Dean's dick through his underwear again.

"Sam-" Dean grunts out through gritted teeth, his brother's name the only word in the English language that he can possibly begin to comprehend.

"I'll stop," Sam continues, whispering into the shell of Dean's ear in such a sensual way that it makes Dean squirm back into Sam's body. "If you want me to, I'll stop." Dean clamps his teeth into his pillow and shakes his head minutely. "Okay. But Dad's asleep, Dean. You gotta be quiet."

Dean's back arches at the promise hanging from Sam's lips, his eyes rolling back at the wave of prickling heat that just swept through his entire body. Who the fuck knew that his little brother could drench his words in sex and shove them into the very core of Dean's soul?

They didn't speak after that. They were both too busy finding a rhythm of shifting and rolling and grinding that left them both struggling for breath. It's even harder for Dean because he is the one facing their dad in the other bed, his eyes watching John's back rise and fall in valleys and hills, constantly waiting for his breathing pattern to change and indicate that he is waking up and about to find his two sons getting each other off. But John sleeps on and eventually everything feels too good for Dean to be this paranoid.

So he lets go. He throws his head back to give Sam a canvas for him to mark up freely. He meets every upward stroke of Sam's hips with a downwards push of his own. He slips his hand down Sam's forearm and squeezes his fingers around the hand that is working Dean's cock through the thin layer of cloth that Dean hates more and more at every passing second. He can feel Sam's body start to tremble as he reaches his peak, a choked whimper breaching Sam's lips where they hover just above Dean's ear. Dean reaches up and winds his fingers in Sam's hair, God,  his fucking _hair_ , Dean loves it, loves to run his hands through it and ruffle it up and feel it slip against his skin, fucking loves it so much that he hates it too. He keeps Sam where he is and turns his face away from the pillow to catch the edge of Sam's mouth with his.

"Don't move, Sammy. Don't move. I wanna hear you, wanna hear the noises you make." Dean barely even realizes he's whispering until he feels Sam's body rock forward sharply in response. Another hitching sound breaks across Dean's skin and it pours gasoline into his bloodstream. He's just waiting for the match to light 

Dean will never be able to forget the way Sam's face looks when he comes, with his mouth parted in an oval with catching, hitching breaths stuttering out of it and his eyes, open and staring down into the very core of Dean's soul. He's never seen anything more beautiful in his life. It's over too fast and it leaves Sam trembling and jerking with his aftershocks, but apparently he is coherent enough to have his fingers fumble under the waistband of Dean's briefs. Dean has to shove his face back into his pillow to muffle a cry of pleasure as Sam wraps his hand around Dean's cock, pulls it out above the band of his underwear, and squeezes. Sam's fingers dance up to the head where pre-come has been collecting and works it down Dean's shaft until he can pull without any resistance. Dean's hips buck forward into Sam's fist and it only takes two quick tugs until Dean is spilling into Sam's palm with shuddering jerks, the match he'd been waiting for finally catching flame and dropping into his veins to send his orgasm exploding through his body.

They both lay there for a long time as they wait for their hearts to slow down and their breathing to return to normal, Sam with his head nestled in the crook of Dean's neck and Dean still buried in his pillow. After Dean had come down from his high, Sam had taken off his shirt and used it to wipe off Dean and his hand before tucking Dean back into his underwear with the utmost care. It had left Dean blushing for the next twenty minutes. Never before has he been treated with such love and care.

This was more than just personal. It was intimate. It was special. It was theirs. Whatever this was, whatever it was going to become, and no matter how fucked up it was, it was theirs.

"We need to work on your stamina." Sam murmurs into Dean's ear. Dean is on his back now and Sam is curled against Dean's side with his arm wrapped around Sam's shoulders.

Dean reaches up and tugs hard on a strand of Sam's hair, smiling smugly when he hears a noise of protest.

"You came first if I remember correctly," Dean whispers back, turning his head to look down at his little brother. "Maybe you need another lesson from your all-knowing big brother?"

Sam giggles into Dean's shoulder and lifts to meet his gaze. The rings of green in Sam's eyes are brimming with so much love and happiness that it makes Dean's breath catch in his throat.

Sam's opening his mouth to make some kind of witty reply, but Dean just really needs to fucking kiss him, so he does. He kisses Sam because he can and because Sam wants all of this just as badly as Dean does. He kisses Sam because this is what started the avalanche that buried them both under the weight of the realization that they can both have what they want: each other.

So when Dean kisses Sam, he's pressing a promise to his brother's lips. A promise that, no matter what comes their way, no matter what stones life decides to throw at them, this will remain the same. It's not much, but it's all Dean has to give.

When Sam kisses Dean back, he makes a promise of his own, one that settles a blanket of warmth and everlasting comfort over his bones and his soul.

He promises the same thing right back. And it's enough.

For them, it's enough.


End file.
